


16. Pinned Down

by titC



Series: Whumptober 2019 [16]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-10-21 09:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20691023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt is a talker, Frank isn't.Fucking lawyers.





	16. Pinned Down

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Whumptober](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/) for organizing it and [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/) for the beta!  
Part one of a 3-part series written for Whumptober!

Frank had never expected to end up in bed with Murdock, but then again the altar boy had always been full of surprises. What else could you expect of a blind Catholic ninja lawyer? And Karen said his mother was a nun; seriously, Red didn’t know the meaning of _overkill_. Well, she wasn’t very conventional for a nun, but her son wasn’t very conventional for a Catholic either. What a family, yeah?

At least his buddy Nelson was a normal guy. Mostly. He’d actually threatened Frank with bodily harm when he found out about him and Red fucking, which was kind of cute. Nelson had opened the door, bagels from the corner bakery in hand, right as Frank had been trying a dignified front door exit for once. He should have known better, but at least the bagels had survived the fall.

So Red kept doing stupid stunts and Frank kept wanting to knock some sense into him. Red’s rooftops acrobatics were one thing, but his fighting? It was a mess. It wasn’t _efficient_. He exhausted himself using his fists and some showy kicks until whoever he’d decided to use as a punching bag was down for the count, but he took too many risks. He could use blades even if he didn't want to use a gun; he could even throw knives. They’d played darts once in a bar; Red had put his glasses in a pocket and pretended he wasn’t blind, and he’d hit the goddamn target every time. Not bullseye, but he’d hit it. He said he’d heard where it was from the other players’ throws.

Frank could have strangled him; they had been there to gather intel and not to show off. But Red had laughed it off, and then they’d gone after their actual target. It had almost ended in disaster; Mr. No Killing had jumped in front of every bullet like the idiot he was. He’d brought his funny little batons to a gunfight, and then he’d done all he could to fuck with Frank’s aim so he didn’t hit the traffickers center mass. Yeah, it was a miracle he’d survived that shit show.

“But Frank, the police are going to find them, and some of them at least will give more names!”

“And then they’ll be out again.”

“Well, everyone should have a chance at – ”

Frank had just wanted to shut him up. Blah blah fucking blah, Jesus blah second chances blah justice and the law. That had been the first time they’d fucked. Murdock had ridden him like it was his mission in life and of course he _wouldn’t_ shut up, not until Frank found out the right angle to hit that spot that finally, finally stopped the words.

Fucking lawyers, yeah?

It became a thing, whenever they met. It didn’t happen often, maybe once or twice a month if that, but it always followed the same pattern. They found out they were after the same people, they more or less reluctantly worked together, and then Red just talked at him.

_Due process_ and _We can’t take their lives, Frank_ and_ You could be someone else, if you wanted to. I could help you_.

But Frank didn’t want to be anyone else and so it always ended up in the same way. Sometimes against a wall, sometimes over a couch; sometimes just a quick handjob and sometimes something more involved. Whatever happened, Red inevitably turned to goo and sprawled over the nearest horizontal surface, which sometimes was Frank himself. As long as Frank didn’t try to change positions, Murdock was a floppy, boneless mess. Frank had learned not to try, because that would end in him getting kicked out before he’d even put his clothes back on, so he didn’t. He was too old for this walk of shame bullshit.

There always were new bruises, new stitches, new scars over the old ones. Frank touched them and Murdock shuddered, but he never explained anything about them. It was the only time he was quiet, when they were done; and Frank liked that. The quiet. If they were in Red’s apartment, Frank waited until Red was asleep before leaving; if they were elsewhere he’d often drive him back to his building afterwards. It was just fucking, yeah? Nothing to talk about. What was there to say? Murdock would get himself killed sooner than later, Frank was a dead man walking, and there was nothing else to it. None of them would stop being who they were.

Still, Frank wished Murdock were less of an idiot. “You’re wasting energy for nothing,” he’d said once. “You’re playing whack-a-mole, is what you’re doing.” But Red was a true altar boy; he didn’t care about _efficient_. He did whatever he wanted, however he wanted; nothing else. So Frank let him be.

One night, though, Frank didn’t drive him back to his apartment. Red had a gash in his thigh that needed stitches, a bullet graze on his arm that should be cleaned and bandaged, and he’d gotten a good hit in the head. Nothing life-threatening, but Murdock wasn’t in any state to take care of it himself. Blood loss had made him a bit unsteady so Frank threw him in the van, ignored his whining, and carried him up the stairs to his own place. It was a little two-room apartment that the landlord let him keep in exchange for keeping the place clean of drug dealers, and he had everything he needed there to patch Red up.

But Red, of course, didn’t want that. He was trying to take his stupid clothes off, and when that didn’t work too well he attacked Frank’s vest, and then he resorted to pouting when his fingers kept not cooperating. “They’re not working,” he wailed.

“Yeah.” Frank cut off his shirt and pants to assess his wounds, and shoved some Gatorade in Red’s hands to keep him occupied. “Here, drink this.”

Hydration and sugar and electrolytes, it was what he needed but Red refused to drink it. “Ew,” he said. “No. Yuck.”

“It’s good for you. Bottoms up, Red.”

“Nooo.”

“Shut up and drink.”

“Make me. You make me shut up sometimes, yeah?”

He started to attack Frank’s fly, and no. Not happening.

So Frank finally shoved him flat on the floor, pinned him down with one hand on his sternum, and was bending over the leg when he noticed Red had stopped moving. “You alright there?” No answer. “Red, you with me?” Still nothing, so Frank straddled him to see his face better. “Hey.”

Finally, a minute movement of the head. “We can’t move,” he whispered. “It’s all going to collapse on us if we move.”

“The fuck are you on about?”

“Shh.”

“Wha– ”

“Shh, I’m listening.” He was breathing weird, like he was trying very hard not to hyperventilate and not quite succeeding. “Rubble’s shifting. I’m pinned down, can’t move.” His chest almost vibrated under Frank’s hand. “You?”

The hell? “Where do you think you are, Red?” He wasn’t making sense, and maybe that hit on the head had been… oh. Frank moved to kneel next to Red instead of _on_ him, and took his hand away from his chest. He’d been putting weight on Murdock so he’d stop moving, enough that it had triggered some sort of… memory? Phobia? Frank had no fucking idea. “Better?”

“It’s moved.” Red’s voice was thin and thready. “I can… think I can get out?”

“Yeah?” Frank wanted to shake him, demand answers. It would have to wait. “Okay then, can you take my hand?”

“I can’t see.” No shit. Had he forgotten? What had _happened_ to him?

“That’s fine.” It wasn’t. “To your left.” Murdock extended an arm gingerly, as if he expected the world to fall down on him. “That's good, almost there, almost – yeah, good, I got you. You’re fine, you’re okay.” He was not okay and he was having a goddamn flashback, and Frank had no idea of _what_ exactly. They were going to have a serious talk once this was over, once Red wasn’t a clammy, shaky wreck of a ball on his floor. A clammy, shaky, and bleeding wreck, because of course the wounds that had been mostly clotted had reopened with all that shit. “It’s not real, what you’re seeing, okay? What you’re, uh, feeling. You hear me?”

“Okay.”

“You cold?” Red didn’t reply. He had to be; on top of the blood loss he was only wearing boxer briefs and a thin sleeveless shirt. “I’m going to cover you, and you’re going to drink that bottle, and I’m going to clean and stitch your leg, alright?” Still no answer, but he seemed to be calming down. Maybe the warm, fleecy blanket Frank had taken from the bed helped, it was old and worn enough it shouldn’t be too harsh on Mr. Silk Sheets Or Else's skin.

Red didn’t protest the Gatorade this time, and once he was propped up against the wall he sipped it meekly, his face slack. As long as he was drinking it, Frank didn’t care. He made a quick job of the cut then dealt with Red’s arm, talking all the while. He described what he was doing, described the apartment they were in. “You’ve never been here before, Red, yeah? Don’t want you to walk into walls.” He was pretty sure Red wasn’t really listening, but they’d said it was the thing to do, when he’d been in officer training. Couldn't hurt, anyway.

When he was done, he coaxed Murdock up and towards the bed, making sure he didn’t trip in the blanket trailing behind him like a fucking train. “There you are, princess,” Frank said when he’d gotten Red to lie down. “Just go the fuck to sleep, yeah?”

Frank hated how this blind idiot could make him feel sometimes, like punching his smug face one minute and keeping him from harm the next. He was a grown adult, and they were just fuckbuddies who sometimes worked together, and… hell. He just hated it.

It was probably too early to call Nelson, but if Frank couldn’t sleep because of Murdock then Nelson could suffer, too. If Red had given him his number, there had to be a reason, right? So he closed the bedroom door, hit _Call_, and waited.

“Hnn?”

“Hey. It’s Castle.”

Silence, then – “Wh… shit. Wait.” Some noises, then he spoke again. “Shit, right, yes, I’m listening, what – fuck, what happened?”

“Relax, he’s fine.”

“_Relax_?” Wow, that was a _very_ high-pitched throttled shriek. “You're calling at 3 in the morning and you’re telling me to _relax_?”

“He’s fine. Bit banged up; don’t expect him at work, but he’s fine.”

“Banged up? What do you mean, ‘banged up’?”

“He’ll live. Couple new scars is all.”

“Right. He’s horrifically hurt as usual, no big deal, carry on. Fine. So why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

“Got a question.”

“A question.” Nelson sighed. “I’m listening.”

“Was he ever caught in, I don’t know, in a hurricane?”

“A hurricane? No, not that he’s ever said, why?”

“Maybe trapped under a car or something else that fell on him?”

“A car? No, what do you… wait. You don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“A building, a fucking _skyscraper_ fell on him!”

Frank sat on the ratty couch and rubbed his face. “A building.”

“There were charges all through it, he was caught underground when they went off.”

“God_dammit_!”

“You didn’t…?”

“No. You know what? That little shit never shuts up, always flapping his mouth about justice and the fucking law, and he never says… I’ll just – I’ll kill him.” How could anyone talk so much and say so little? “Fucking lawyers.”

Nelson huffed into the phone. “Don’t kill him, please. What happened? Did something fall on you?”

“Nah, I just – I pinned him down to look at a cut. Idiot had some sort of flashback.”

“How…” Nelson swallowed loudly. “He’s never mentioned that before. Not that he would.”

“No.” But, Frank was now realizing, it wasn’t new. Red hated anything that put weight on him or restricted his movement; he’d reacted violently the few times Frank had thrown an arm around him in bed. Was he even aware of it? Frank had thought he just wasn’t a cuddler, and it didn’t matter anyway; they didn’t have that kind of relationship. They were just… vigilantes with benefits. “Go back to sleep, yeah? He’ll be fine.”

Frank hung up before Nelson had finished talking. He was a talker, too, and Frank wasn’t in the mood. He went back to the bedroom and stretched out on the bed next to Murdock, knowing he wouldn’t sleep but too tired for anything else. A bit of blood had seeped through the gauze on his arm, and before he turned off the light Frank saw the familiar shine of an older scar on Red’s chest. He didn’t know where it came from. Red knew about many of his; he’d read Frank’s file when he’d decided to defend him. He knew about his family, about the hole in his skull, about his service; but Frank hardly knew anything about Red.

They were going to have a talk in the morning, and this time it would be real. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Pinned Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24391786) by [Metaderivative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metaderivative/pseuds/Metaderivative)


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